The 1980s were a turbulent time in South Africa. Two State of Emergencies had been declared by the apartheid state (1985 and 1986), the second more repressive than the first. There seemed to be no end to the detentions, killings and bannings the apartheid state would mete out against a defenceless people who wanted a non-racial, non-sexist, democratic country.
Curfews were imposed, the names of those held in detention could legally be withheld by the police, funerals were restricted, and political meetings were banned. People were killed in detention, others fled into exile, and a climate of fear and defiance existed. Many activists went underground to escape detention without trial, or even worse, meet an untimely death through “slipping on a bar of soap while taking a shower”, or “jumping to their death through an open window” while under police guard.
During that period, I served the United Democratic Front as a regional co-ordinator for the northern suburbs of the Western Cape, and it was my responsibility to ensure the region, through its respective area committees, made up of street committees, follow the Western Cape strategy to ensure we organised all sectors – students, workers and the broader community. Such was the turbulence of the time that much of the detail escapes me today. I am told this is how the mind protects itself from trauma.
We had very little that stood between us and detention, killing, banning or exile. But there was one name that we knew, and a number that was engraved unto our brains. Essa Moosa 637 9030. This was the number that we knew we had to call if the boers picked us up.
We all knew that it was not a matter of if, but of when you would be detained. And if that happened, you knew who stood between you and everything that the apartheid police could throw at you.
And because I was listening to Father Michael Lapsley recently in Colombo at a “Healing Memories” gathering, and who said that “every story needs a listener”, let me share a small story of my own encounter with Essa Moosa 637 9030.
I had been on the run from the police in 1987 for close to two years, moving from one safe house to the next. Often, I would receive a warning to leave my latest “safe house” just before the police arrived, and I would watch them as I crouched behind bushes close by.
Once, just needing to be in a quiet place and have a warm bath, I stayed at the home of Father Per Svensson and Gunilla Johannsen, a dedicated anti-apartheid Lutheran clergy family who opened up the Lutheran Youth Centre to community groups, and also their home to me. I was relieved to be in a warm, welcoming space.
However, I made the mistake of making two phone calls, one to greet my mother, whom I had not been able to see or speak to for many months, and was interrupted during my conversation with a harsh shout from the Security Branch, who, unknown to me, had been tapping the phone – “we know where you are! It’s either you or your mother!” Shocked, I dropped the phone, shoved some pieces of clothing into a black rubbish bag and fled down the dark street to another “safe home”. Such were the times.
By then, my mother, had borne the brunt of constant police harassment. The street had become used to the sound of screeching tyres as policeman pulled up in front of our Cape Flats home, armed with R1 rifles and batons, and storm up the stairs to our flat, pound on the door until my terrified mother opened, while they demanded, “where is your child?”
And on being told that she didn’t know, would be threatened with imprisonment, death for both of us, rape… After being harassed repeatedly, and spending many nights in the outdoor toilets of strangers, (once even close family friends refused to allow her to sleep in their home, but said she could stay in the outside toilet) she finally broke. Had a breakdown and was admitted into psychiatric care.
Well, that was also the moment that decided me. I resolved to return back home, knowing full well that I would be picked up. I felt that my mother could not be expected to pay the price and in this way for me. That night, I sat alone in the dark house, dressed in a navy blue track suit, and with a few items of toiletries in a plastic bag, waiting. At 2.45am the knock came. It was a quiet knock. I didn’t have to ask who it was. I called a friend. Told him that the Security Branch was there. Told him Essa Moosa 637 9030.
I opened the door. One of them asked, “Are you Ruby Marks?” I responded, yes. One of them said, “Come with us.” It was not a question. I asked what I was being picked up for? The response came, “It’s Section 29 of the Internal Security Act.” I had been hoping it would be under the State of Emergency Regulations. At the time I was under the deluded impression that it might be “easier” – no detention is ever easy. I nodded. Picked up my bag. Got into the back of the police van. And running like a refrain through my mind was Essa Moosa 637 9030.
He didn’t disappoint. He found me at Pollsmoor Prison. He came there and demanded to see me. By that time I was held in solitary confinement and had no contact with anyone, apart from the Security Branch who with their own special methods of interrogation tried to break me down. He told me calmly that everything would be okay. And eventually, yes eventually, it was okay, in its own time, and in its own way.
Thank you Essa Moosa 637 9030. Thirty years later and your number is still engraved on my brain and in my heart. Essa Moosa. Defender of the poor and the oppressed. Fighter for peace and justice. A compassionate revolutionary.
Hamba Kahle Essa Moosa 637 9030. My sincerest condolences to his family, and to Gadija Vallie, who was always at his side, and always someone we could rely on.
Essa Moosa 637 9030. Essa Moosa 637 9030. Essa Moosa 637 9030.
We Shall Never Forget. Rest in Peace, Comrade Judge Essa Moosa.